


Brother.

by parodySphoria



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bro's POV, Davesprite has claw hands like in Namco High, Gen, I was having Bro Strider feels and this happened, Sadstuck, because how badass was that, hold me while i cry, no yaoi here, oh no, timejumps all over the show, try to keep up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parodySphoria/pseuds/parodySphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flames are spreading quickly, though; you know you don't have much time. In the distance, all you can see is red and orange, high rises and skyscrapers burning, but not crumbling, their structures holding strong only because they're built for the Texan heat. They'll hold up for a while yet, you reckon, but you don't have much time before the veil of fiery rain reaches you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother.

You sit atop the rooftop alone, watching the meteors falling, crashing into buildings and parks over the Houston skyline. The burning heat and roaring flames can be felt and heard from the roof of your apartment complex, despite the danger itself still being just about a kilometre away. The flames are spreading quickly, though; you know you don't have much time. In the distance, all you can see is red and orange, high rises and skyscrapers burning, but not crumbling, their structures holding strong only because they're built for the Texan heat. They'll hold up for a while yet, you reckon, but you don't have much time before the veil of fiery rain reaches you.

Which is why you're up here. You're sat on the air conditioning unit on the roof of the apartment complex you've called home for the last decade or so, your sword resting delicately and purposefully in one of your gloved hands. You've turned your collar up against the heat of the fire and sun, pulled your cap down and your pointed shades further on your face. Your legs are burning up in your jeans, but you want to be wearing this - it's what you always wear for strifes. You don't want him to be afraid there's something wrong. You want him to be ready.

He needs to be ready. You've been training him for this for thirteen years.

You remember finding him, knowing what it meant and not being sure why you knew. You did, though. You always did. You took him from the crash site, raised him as your brother because it was the closest familial tie you could settle for. You were never cut out to be a parent. You're not sure why you know that. You tried sending him to school but when that didn't work out you taught him yourself, everything you knew, everything you came to learn. You taught him how to hide, how to protect himself, how to fight.

You stayed distant, as distant as you could from him as he grew up. You asked him to call you 'Bro' - nothing else, not your real name. You doubt he even knows your real name, unless he's gone through your mail. You don't want him to get attached, but sometimes you slip up. Sometimes you find yourself messing about, playing games with him, letting him rap to you and giving feedback. You're letting him get attached when you know you don't have long left.

You look up to the fire spreading through the city - the sound of sirens on fire engines you know are useless, on ambulances you know are too late. Today's the day, you can feel it; and if it isn't, you guess you have to give him the best last day you can manage.

You can hear him, now, climbing the stairs. You know he can be quieter than that, he knows he can be quieter than that. He's not trying, today. You let yourself smile as you jump down from the air con system.

You remember when you first brought him up here. You talked more than you fought, tried to rile him up but he just stood there; a 7 year old with a sword, only used to fake fighting in the lounge downstairs. He could barely hold the shitty thing upright and his shades, not unlike your own in shape and colour, kept sliding off; his bright, sensitive eyes would see the sun without them and he'd be caught off guard. You remember one time he tried taping them to his face before meeting you up here - it was adorable. You let yourself grin at him for the first time, then, and found your chest tighten as he grinned right back.

You made alot of those mistakes. At least he doesn't hold back any more.

Or maybe he does?

He exits the doorway, allowing himself a brief glance at the burning cityscape before turning to face you, throwing Lil Cal in your direction. You drawl a "why thankyou sir" at him as he weighs up the sword in his hands, eyeing your own unbreakable katana as he does. You can't see his eyes through those new shades of his, but you always know where he's looking.

Maybe it's this connection, this guardianship that leads you to your death, you're not sure. Maybe, just maybe, as you find yourself thrown into another dimension - one still as hot but not nearly as beautiful as your Texan city, you allow yourself to feel some pride towards the kid you've raised all by yourself. You find you aren't surprised by the creatures that wander this planet, in fact some of them are rather friendly, while others provide strifes not nearly as fulfilling as the ones you have with Dave, but close enough to keep you busy while he does his thing.

Maybe it's the pride you feel, or maybe it's the loyalty to the now-lanky white-blonde teenager you call your brother, that means that when a creature unlike the others, with a dog's face, a shelled body and the wings of a crow comes by asking for his whereabouts in less-than-polite terms, and you see a near-spitting-image of your little brother spliced with a bird ghost thing, you instantly trust him when he asks you to.

Maybe it's this that makes you speak to this not-Dave-still-Dave-

_Davesprite. Call me Davesprite. Everyone else does._

-when you speak to _Davesprite_ , your own sword lodged in your abdomen and through the floor below you, you're proud to have died alongside your little brother, in any form he could take.

Davesprite says he's not your little brother.

You say he is.

You ask if you think the two of you held that monster off long enough for Dave to get some shit done. He starts crying, says "I hope so". You tell him not to cry. His clawed hands press at your shoulder and chest, his curling lower half is pulled in tightly and his large wings are laid flat, one over the ground, one over your legs. His tears streak yellow down his orange face.

"The fuck did I raise you for, kid? Wipe your eyes."

He looks up at you. You say you're sorry. You ask him to tell Dave, your Dave, your little man that you're sorry, too. He promises he'll try.

He looks just like him, and you ask how. He tells you all about other timelines, about how Dave, your Dave, is the Knight of it all. He tells you about his timeline, about Dave's friends, what they have to do and how far they've come already. You listen, tears welling up and threatening, but only threatening, to spill out of your eyes. You can feel your blood leaving your body, a clawed hand clasping your own weak fingers.

"Dirk." You say, interrupting Davesprite's story. He looks up at you, "Dirk Strider. Proud brother of one."

You close your eyes, tales of your little bro, the Knight Of Time, builder of a new universe replaying in your head. You have never been more proud of him in your life.

Though really, you suppose you never _stopped_ being proud of him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 90% of the next chapter of R&R and then was overcome with a case of unrelated Bro Strider feels.
> 
> So I wrote this.
> 
> Bro needs to be appreciated as more than a violent homosexual puppet fondler.
> 
> xoMegan


End file.
